


Decay

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9116569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon sourly watches the Númenóreans enjoy their holiday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Spending the Holiday Alone” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make). Warning for Númenor inaccuracies for the sake of the bunny.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the most part, this life is a good one, or as good as it can be without all he’s lost. The view from his tower isn’t what it was in Middle-Earth, but Númenor is closer to Valinor in many ways, and he’d missed that beauty. When he looks down through the sweeping streets, piled high with the greed of Men and elaborate, golden buildings, he sees through to the potential: what a powerful army this could be. Perhaps enough, even, to storm the Western shores and strike Manwë from behind, to stride through his hallowed gates and across to the other side, where _all Mairon’s ever wanted_ lies captive in the shadows...

He pulls himself from his reverie with a shake of his fiery head, the flame-coloured hair of his Eldar form spilling loosely down his shoulders. The air is piercing cold and the most inhospitable it can become in these seas, but the Men below still smile. He can see, even from his great height, down to their cheer-filled faces. It’s one of the few times he curses his Maia gifts. They ruin his mood with their joy, with their thin excuses to overlook all the corruption of their land, even if only for a few days. Yule here is different than it was in the East. It’s more... aggravating. 

They sing their songs and fill the air with the scent of fresh treats, and they carry stacked gifts in their arms to spread good will about their neighbours. With a twisted snarl, Mairon retreats from the window, stepping back into the inner sanctum of his temple. No height they can build him is far enough away. He can still picture their twinkling laughter, and it stirs in him memories of so long ago, back in another land, when he was young and unencumbered, and a chance to leave the forge for a glimmering festival seemed a lovely thing.

He went on Aulë’s arm. But he always managed to slip away at one point or another, to spend time with his _true master_. He can remember acutely the gift he brought on his first one, wrapped in silken ribbon and formed with his own two hands, in stolen moments in the forge where he dared let Melkor inspire him, and he’d handed the ruby-studded pendant over in nearly trembling hands. Melkor had blessed him with a thin smile, looped an arm around his slender waist, and pulled him close to whisper in his ear how _talented_ he was, and how his skills were wasted in Aulë’s servitude. And he heard then, for the first time, what it would be like to serve another master, to craft with the power of Melkor’s vision, to _rule_ , to burn with lust for the one that held him...

But the memory of that only makes the cold sharper. It’s been far too long since any sort of holiday held any form of meaning. And he’s too _alone_.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still feel his master’s touch.

But no matter what he tries, how hard he strives, how many sacrifices he flings into the alter of his power, he can’t seem to bring that master back. And it makes him eye the window bitterly, left to wonder if he’s doomed to see every festival alone.

There’s a single, fleeting memory of a young, pretty elf, running breathlessly into the forge with a woven wreath of green pine. He’d let it be laid about his head like a crown, and he’d smiled to be _Annatar_ and watched trust bloom in the fragile creature’s eyes. 

He opens his mouth, and only for his master, he lets out a cry that shakes the walls, makes the temple tremble, carries through the winding streets below and silences all else—if they ask, he’ll claim it the fury of Manwë. They don’t know what songs he’s capable of. He screams with the force of a thousand Balrogs and counts on it to sully the holiday they don’t deserve. He shrieks until he thinks any more will topple his temple, and then he lets it putter off in a deathly wail, hoping it stokes the fear of their mortality.

Then he slinks deeper into the shadows and wraps himself in as much darkness as possible. All he can dream is that someday, when he’s laid ruin to all that stand between, he’ll feel his true master around him again, a new pendant offered in his hands.


End file.
